sometimes incoming messages filter
through clouds of mistranslation
until the message becomes nothing
more than its own response,
“we can’t talk right now,
we were nine minus 1 then
1 flew the coop, seven went away, and
two came back?
the others stayed behind because
did they stay behind?
who stayed behind?
it’s hard to pretend to be something you’re
not, particularly when the something you’re
trying to be is yourself,
and you’re feeling more like a you doll than
you are like you
what stayed behind?
what came back?
a suit made of you bearing someone else’s
soul, walking through New York City
with a whole new strut,
impossible dance you’ve never known
before, awkward and elegant,
the soundtrack offbeat and
unaware of itself
Poem by Shane Douglas Keene
Categories: Carpenter's Farm